The Ocean doesn't call to You because you don't look good in Blue

There are a thousand things I could be,
a thousands of thoughts sheltered in my mind,

a thousand sparks and fireflies in my soul,

a thousand pathways and mazes in my heart,

decades of ages in the pupils of my eyes and in the wrinkles upon my forehead,

curves and parallel lines upon my lips and eyebrows,

foreign languages curled asleep in my mouth,
gentle paintstrokes on my fingertips,

knots of secret hopes in my tangled, curly mess of hair,

cello music in my ears all screaming a silent madness,

 the scent of burnt taffee in my nostrils,

blood and love becoming one in my veins,

strength in a boxing match with weakness in my muscles,

paper thin airplanes are flying, walls around me built and knocked down, my kites never coming off the ground, and I stand there in awe.

 

Because this is life.

 

Unperfected words upon unperfected paper filled with meaning and nonsense in a whirlpool found upon in the ocean that you won't go and visit because blue doesn't look good on you.

 

And that's okay.

 

Because you're found in the field of the daffodils and where the brilliant sun matches your golden hair and your golden heart and yellow suits you just fine because you've always coated your hotdog with mustard instead of ketchup.

 

And this is life.